


Lost in Anger

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [19]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1336564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gimli and Legolas are in Edoras on the way to the caves of Aglarond, post-post ROTK. </p><p>Elven hearing is a curse at times, especially if you are in the throes of a new relationship; dealing with other peoples assumptions can be painful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost in Anger

**Author's Note:**

> takes place after 'Just Maybe' before any other shorts in that series. slight reference to that story, but probably doesn't matter much if you haven't read it.
> 
> ah. no. editing this, because there are now two shorts that go before this. really don't need to have read them (obviously, since I hadn't written them when I wrote it), but for the sake of accuracy.......
> 
> bit surprised by how this turned out. starts off emotionally darker than I normally go for, but hopefully the end makes up for it.

It seems to me I do not like Edoras. In truth, this is but my fourth visit – and the first two were short and pleasant enough – so perhaps – perhaps I do not like Eomer’s Edoras. At that thought, I feel guilt, for he is not himself unkind, but – his court – there is no queen, no high royal lady, and it seems that in a land of Men this is a great lack. His riders might, I think, be – be less free with their tongues were there a woman at the High Table in this Hall. 

Eomer should marry, before Saruman’s words become all too true, and the House of Eorl a thatched barn where brigands drink. 

This is the Hall of the liege lord of my beloved. I must stay calm, stay quiet. I am an elf, I can be patient, I remind myself. 

But I am angry, angry as I rarely feel. I do not know whether I am more angry with the Rohirrim whose words I heard, with the ones whose laughter I felt, with those whose eyes I sensed, or – or with my beloved who caused it, and knows not how I feel. 

I am – burning with pain, with shame, with humiliation. I ache inside of me. 

I know, I know, how I know, this is something I need to ignore, to put away from me. This is not going to change for all my willing. 

I cannot change the past.

The evening passes.

I keep my elven mask in place, I thank my Ada, and who thought I would still need to, for all his lessons in silence, in accepting pain and shame, and keeping cold, still, not reacting.

I suspect, as once before, Eomer sees my pain, perhaps guesses the cause, but – but now he is wise enough to stay silent. What can he say?

There is only one who could offer me comfort for this, and he does not even see the wound. 

 

 

At last, at last, we have left the Hall, we are in our room. I slam the door, and lean against it, breathing hard. 

He has no idea of how I feel. He is – I do not know exactly what he is doing – he is wandering about the room, readying himself for – bed. Sleep. 

I suppose he thinks he is getting something else first.

Not tonight.

Not after those comments.

 

 

They play again in my head, every word like a knife somewhere within me.

“Shame. Wasted on an elf.”  
“Elves – they don’t fuck. No good, he said that before.”  
“So – why? Why then?”  
“Well, money, power, he’s a prince isn’t he?”  
“Really – that’s all?”  
“Pretty. Maybe – maybe he lies back and lets him.”  
“Can’t believe it. An elf. Let a dwarf fuck him? No.”  
“More than that, I heard.”  
“No, he’s an elf. They don’t.”  
“No, really. Desperate for it. Apparently.”  
“Who said?”  
“When I was out on the borders. Met some Gondor lads. They said it’s all anyone can talk of. Their king’s not too pleased, not with the noise, not in the palace.”  
“No. No.”  
“You’re having us on.”  
“Not that elf.”  
“Oh yes. So he said. Screams. Can’t get enough.”  
“Screams?”  
“An elf?”  
“Really?”  
“Fuck.”  
“Well, presumably.”  
“Would like to hear that.”  
“Mmm. Imagine. An elf. So desperate.”  
“Not how elves are meant to be.”  
“Not for a dwarf.”  
“An elf. Hot for dwarf-cock.”  
“Desperate for it.”  
“On his knees.”  
“His knees – you think he sucks as well?”  
“Bound to. Look at him.”  
“Mouth like that, must do.”  
“Made for it.”

And they laughed.

“Well, remember when the dwarf was here before? If anyone could get an elf hot, he could.”  
“Oh yes, we all remember what you were like.”  
“Hardly the only one was I?”  
“No, true. Went through – half the bloody eored.”  
“And some.”  
“Likes blonds, doesn’t he?”  
“So – you reckon one elf’s enough? Reckon he’ll behave?”  
“Don’t be silly. That one? You wait. He’ll fuck the elf, then be round looking for more.”  
“Good.”

 

And I know not how to cope. I do not know whether I should ignore it, pretend I did not hear. Ask for reassurance, again. Beg, plead, implore, as I always seem to, for his words to hold me, keep me safe.

But – I am angry.

Why?

Others have teased. His dwarves tease – but – but they tease both of us. It is said to our faces, it – it feels almost as though they wish us joy as they say it. It – it seems the way they speak to any new vowed couple.

Why is this different? Why does this hurt so?

Because – I have not felt this before – because the way they spoke, it took what I thought was ours, sacred between us, and made it a joke. Made me a joke.

Because I am an elf. 

Because I love him so.

Because – because his loving makes me so noisy. But – I do not know how not to be. I cannot help it.

How are others not?

Because they spoke as though he has – tamed me, vanquished me. As though I submit – as though I am made less.

Because they made it seem as though – and once again I do not have words – as though I were just something for him to use. To use for his pleasure. As though I had no will of my own, as though I were not his equal, his love.

I hurt. And I want him to comfort me, but he does not.

And so – I am angry.

I – I find I want to show them it is not as they think.

 

 

I wait. I lock the door. 

He is still fossicking about, I do not know what he is doing. 

At last he gets into the bed, and at last he notices I have not moved.

“Legolas? Daft sodding elf, are you planning on spending the night there? Come here and warm me.”

Now, now I am really angry.

“Do not you call me daft. I am not daft. And if I wish to spend the night here I can. I need not warm you if I do not wish it.”

He still does not see,

“Of course you need not. But why would you not wish it – there are no bloody stars tonight, it is raining – love – really – come here. Fuck’s sake, what has got into your pretty head now?” He smiles, and part of me longs to fall into his arms and forget the rest, but I cannot, even as he says, “come here, love, let me comb you, comb out your braids, come and comb me.”

For all I long for it, for the comfort of combing, for his hands, for his words of love – I cannot. All I can think of is those others, their words, their laughter. And part of me freezes inside at the thought of them hearing us – me. 

If I am to be truly honest, the thought of them, tall, blond, supercilious, their blue eyes cold with disdain – it is too close to home. Too close to my kin. My brothers. Ada – at least I can trust Ada for this – he will not laugh. Anger. Scorn. Dislike. But – he loves me in his way, he at least has never laughed at me. I – I know these are Men, I know their words are very different to those I would hear from the elves who share my blood – but – the mocking laughter is too close.

And that he cares not, that he has no thought at all for how his actions in another time might haunt me now – I am angry.

 

 

And so – I act in a way I do not normally.

I stalk towards the bed, I remove not one single thing I am wearing. I do not loosen my hair, I do not reach for a comb. I do not flush with need and desire, I do not reach out in love.

He has turned back the cover, so sure he is of my acquiescence. I stand and look at him, and – he is so beautiful to my eyes. I want him so. Nothing changes that.

“Show me,” I say, and meet his eyes as I touch myself through the material of my leggings, “show me your love, Gimli-nin.”

Understanding, he swings himself to sit before me, and reaches out. He unlaces me, so practised that it takes seconds, and leaning forward, takes me in his mouth.

Practised at this too, I realise, and it hurts again. How many, how many of those in this hall has he had like this, how many has he touched as he touches me, how many has he ridden screaming their pleasure under him as he does me?

But.

He loves me. Me only.

It feels – it feels so good. Not just the sensation, though that is – beyond the words I know – but that he is seated, naked, looking up at me, and I am clothed.

That his eyes show me love, desire, and – and that he will do as I ask.

I reach down to his hair, and grip, needing help to keep my feet as the feeling surges over me. He reaches to hold my hips, and I let him, but when one hand moves round, stroking me, and I know he is preparing to find his way inside my leggings, inside me, I slap his hand back.

“No.” I say. “No. Not tonight.”

And even though he blinks in surprise, he continues to lick at me, and I realise he thinks he can persuade me this way.

So often, he can.

Tonight, tonight I am different.

I make myself stop this, pull him back from me, even though it feels so good, even though I long to give in, to enjoy his hands, to think of nothing but him. 

He looks at me, and I see a realisation in his eyes that something is different,

“What is it, Legolas love, what is it? What do you want?”

And I know exactly what I want tonight, and how to get it.

“Lie back down,” I say, and as he does, I kneel astride him and run my hands over his body, watching his reaction, hearing his breathing change. I do not let myself lean forward to kiss him, for I know if I do, all my thoughts will be lost in desire, in need, in passion. I simply stroke down his body, watching him, enjoying the need in his eyes.

“What do you want?” he says again, and I hold his eyes with mine as I move between his legs and reach for the oil he has put ready – so that is what he was doing, I register. 

I see the moment he understands what I want, see him lick his lips in anticipation, feel him relax under me, move his legs for me as I reach down with oiled fingers and begin to touch him, tease him, stretch him out ready for me.

It does not take long. At least, it need not. Soon enough he is breathing hard, moving under me, beginning to pull at me – but I push his hands away.

“Fuck, elf, what are you playing at?” he says. Oh Gimli, you are going to regret those words.

“Do not call me elf when we are in bed,” I say, cold, bitter even, “or I shall begin to wonder how many elves you have had, that you cannot remember my name.”

Even now, even now he does not understand.

“Fuck’s sake, Legolas, love, come on. Much more and I won’t remember my sodding name, please, love, please.”

“Please what?” I ask. Oh I want this. I want him. But right now, I am enjoying his need.

“Please, fuck me.”

“Not yet.” I say. And watch him writhe some more.

“Fuck. Want. Need.” He is breathing so hard now, he is desperate, and oh how he feels to my fingers. So hot, so tight, so needy. So keen to move himself, to get what he needs, what he wants. But – he can’t. I make sure of that.

I raise an eyebrow,

“Ask nicely enough and I might.”

He groans, and pants some more, trying to think what I want. But he can’t think like this.

I know. He has me like this often enough.

“Ask me nicely,” I say again.

He is moaning now, and oh Valar it feels good to hear him. He feels so good, looks so good, his muscles straining in his thighs as I sit between them, his hips moving desperately trying to get my hand further into him, to touch him where he needs it. He is hard, so hard, so hard just from what my hand is doing. He looks at me, his eyes pleading, but he seems not to be able to find the words he needs.

I lean forward slightly, my breath ghosting over his face, and I feel him buck urgently under me, but I am not going to let him get anywhere. 

“You need it, yes?” I say, and as he nods, opens his mouth to beg again, I reach out and place two fingers in his mouth. I do not even have to say anything, he begins to lick and suck as desperately as I could possibly hope.

“You want me? You want me to take you?” I ask, and he nods and makes a moaning noise again around my fingers.

I blink, slowly, deliberately at him, I lick my lips slowly, and I feel his need heighten further.

“Well,” I say, “ask me very nicely, very clearly, and I might. Might. Depends how nicely you ask. When I take my hand away. So you get your words ready, dwarf.” And I wait for a moment.

Then I take my hand away.

He breathes for a moment, then meeting my eyes, he says, very slowly and clearly,

“Please, my lord prince, Legolas of Ithilien, please, fuck me. Hard. Now. I am desperate for you. I want you, I love you, l need you. I am begging you. Please fuck me, my love.”

It feels good. But – not enough. Not yet.

I move my other hand from him, just letting my fingers linger, stroking outside his entrance, 

“Maybe,” I say, “but – I think you can want it more than that.” And I lean down and lick, very slowly, the whole length of his hardness. Just once. 

He was not expecting that. He cries out, wordless, loud. And the triumph is like – I do not know what. 

“Yes, like that. You are helpless, aren’t you?” I look into his eyes, and I can see such urgency there, “ask me again, dwarf, ask me so I can hear you beg.”

“Fuck,” he is so needing it, “Fuck, please, please Legolas, fuck me.”

I lean back, away from him, making as though to move my hand away completely, touching myself as though I am not interested in him, only in my own pleasure. He makes as though to grasp my hands, as though to stop me, to pull me down, then realises this is not a good idea, not tonight. Instead he cries out,

“No, please. Please. Fuck me. Please Legolas, I am desperate for you, I need you, I want you, I want your cock in me, please.”

That is better. I raise an eyebrow encouragingly and still my hand. He breathes, and understands I need more – and oh, even at this moment, even now, how he knows me, how he knows what I need – and I suddenly feel cold – I have thought he knows because he loves me – but is it merely that I am no different to all those others?

“I am begging you,” he is loud now, “please, I will do whatever you want, later or tomorrow, I will kneel to you, whatever, but right now, please, right now, fuck me. Fuck me with all your strength, please. In me. Need you.”

And at last, at last, this raging need in me is satisfied, and I can lean down onto him, I can kiss him, I can push into him. Oh how good it feels. How tight he is, how hot, how he cries out in pleasure with every thrust. How he holds me, how I can lose myself in him, in his arms. I am moving, faster and harder, and I could not stop, I could not, I can only think of how it feels, how good, and he is crying out under me, so loud, so desperate, he is telling me he loves me, he is mine, oh Valar, oh Elbereth he is mine, mine only, and I feel him arch against me, and cry out one more time, and I can feel him coming, his pleasure, his need, he is lost, he is mine. I feel myself shudder, hear myself cry out, and the sensation is strong, is rushing over me, I come deep, deep inside him.

And for a moment I can hold still above him, triumphant.

But only for a moment.

I collapse onto him, and I realise I am still clothed, but I cannot bear to pull away from him. I cling to him, I bury my head in his soft, soft beard, I cannot look at him even, but I cannot let go. I am sobbing, oh sweet Mahal, I am crying again.

His embrace changes from the passion, the need he was feeling, to comfort, he strokes my back, he mumbles something into my hair, and I – I continue to cling, weeping as though something is really wrong. Even though I know I am being foolish.

After a while, as I do not stop, he tries to bring my face up towards his, but I cannot. I burrow deeper, I stay where I am.

“What is it, love? Legolas, what is so wrong? Ghivashel, what is the matter? Tell me.” 

I cannot. I cannot.

He strokes my ears, he holds me. He leans his head against me as best he can, and he says,

“I love you. You know I love you. What is so wrong? What has happened? Did – did you not want that? Did I – did I not please you?”

And those words move me as nothing else perhaps could. I swallow my sobs, and manage to look up at him, blinking through the tears,

“No – yes – yes – you did as I asked. But – I feel – I feel wrong. I – I did not know it would feel like that. I – I should not have. I – I feel – unclean.”

His brow creases, and somehow I have hurt him again, I realise.

“Unclean? Is it so bad to fuck me?” he pauses, and then, “But – you have had me before. What – what do you mean? Love, tell me.”

I look away from his eyes, and watch my hands playing with his beard, unbraiding it, running through the strands, and I feel his hands begin to loosen my braids in turn, running through my hair, comforting me, as I manage to speak.

“I am sorry,” I begin. “I – I was being unfair. I – oh sometimes I hate, hate more than anything, my hearing. I – oh love, how many of those men in the hall tonight have you – have you fucked?”

For a moment his hands are still, then he answers,

“I don’t know. Is that what this is about? Oh my daft sodding elf, I don’t know how many. If they all lined up I could work it out for you, but otherwise, I don’t know. Sober – none. Drunk – many. Did it mean anything? No. You know this.” He stops, and I know he is waiting for me to agree.

“Not to you,” I say, “not to you.”

“Not to them either,” he says, “love, you do not think there is some Rohirrim out there pining away for me? Because I am bloody sure there isn’t. I would not do that.”

You did to me, I think. But I know, I know that is different – he understands Men better than Elves.

“No,” I say, “But – but they all remember you. They – they talk as though, as though I – I do not know how to say it – as though – “

“As though you were another notch on my bedpost?” he finishes, and although I have not heard the phrase, it seems right, and I nod. 

“A very beautiful, ornate, elven notch you would be,” he says, smiling, and I hurt again as I see he thinks it a joke. My pain must show in my face, for he adds quickly, “beloved, you and I know that is not the truth. Your elves know how it is, my dwarves know. Eomer knows, for that matter Aragorn knows even if he doesn’t like it, I imagine by now Rivendell knows so possibly the halflings will hear, I have written to my parents, my king, your Caradhil wrote to your father – in time even these drunken riders will know.” He sighs, “I can’t change the sodding past. However much I might want to. I am not even sure I do,” he smiles, “dwarves do not learn as fast as elves. We would not have nearly so much fun had I not practiced before I loved you.” 

I am not sure about this. I – I do not know – but – but – part of me cries that surely – surely if we had learnt together – that would have been – perfect.

But he is right. We cannot change the past.

He sighs. 

“And so, because of some foolish talk you heard – which to be fair I am sure you were not meant to – you have needed to – to have me – and to have me loud.” He looks at me, and I nod, shamefaced, “and now, now the reaction sets in, and you feel – you feel you have forced me to something I did not wish?”

I bite my lip, 

“And – and shamed you. I – I am sorry. I – I love you so. I – did not think.”

He shakes his head, and I see he is almost laughing, how can he be laughing?

“I am not shamed by having a lover who can wring any words he wants from me. I am proud. Oh my elf, my Legolas, my love, my daft, daft, elf, you have still much to learn. There is nothing you could have me do in bed – or out of it – of which I would not be proud. I would not do something of which I was ashamed. Do you not know this?”

No. I did not. I suppose I should. His pride is so much to him. It always has been, it makes him who he is. I flush, seeing how foolish I am being.

“Love,” he says, “if I could act against my pride, my honour, I would have seduced you when first I wanted you. Using your fear in Khazad-dum, your grief in Lorien, your battle-triumph somewhere along the way – I would not have waited until you offered yourself in a wood, the night before you left me to return to your father’s halls.”

I suppose not. Indeed. And, it strikes me, he would not have held back as he did that night. 

I nod, but, but, 

“I know. At least – I suppose I know now. I – I had not thought. But – oh my love, Gimli-nin – is there nothing new for you? Nothing I can give you that others have not?” for I am honest enough to admit that this is the root of it all. I feel that all I can do is learn how to please him, I am just – another in a long line. Last in line, there will be no other, I do not doubt his word. But – I am not first. Not ever. 

He looks at me and I see something I do not understand in his eyes as he pushes my hair aside, and kisses me. And oh, his kisses, I cannot think when his tongue is in me, he surrounds me, I am his, he is my world, and I cling to him. I hear myself begin to whimper, to moan into his mouth, and I do not know what this talk is of, nothing matters at this moment but that he keep hold of me, that he never stop loving me.

He pulls back and I clutch at him, he must not stop, I cannot bear it, I love him so, need him so, and I fear I have angered him, I am helpless before him, but,

“Oh my love, my ghivashel, my only, how can you ask? Do you not know so much is new with you?” he strokes my ears and begins to talk in that way that reaches inside me, and does something to me I do not really understand, “it is new to talk like this, it is new to promise, it is new – it is new to comb and be combed, braid and be braided, it is new to love. It is new to need to hold, to comfort, to protect you – I know, I know, you can protect yourself – but – I want to take care of you. I want to let you hold me, keep me safe, close.” I look at him as though I have never seen him before. I did not know, I did not know he would let me, understand how I long to take care of him too.

“I have never had one with such pretty ears, with such desire to have those ears touched and kissed, never dreamt it was possible to coax those moans and whimpers by licking only ears. I have never had one who sings so. I have never had one so beautiful. So flexible, so inexhaustible, so – appreciative,” and I blush fiercely, “so shy still. So loving,” he pauses again, and quirks his eyebrow, “so forgetful that he has even left his boots on in our bed.” I blush again, for I had indeed forgotten, and as I kick them off, he is pulling off my tunic, my leggings so gently, yet so possessively.

“That’s better, elf, love,” he says, “much better, isn’t it? Oh fuck, Legolas, you feel good, so good, when you are against me like this. You must know, surely you know, how different this is? I – I can’t pretend I haven’t done the things I have, I can’t say I never fucked another, never spent the night with another. But – I can say I never loved, never wanted as I want you. Never – never went back for more. You must know I am obsessed with you, and have been for so bloody long. Surely you know this. And – if this is what you want to hear, this is new. To only want one, to want the same over and over and over, to see and think of nothing but you – this is new.”

His hands are roaming over me now, and I am responding as I always do, clinging, whimpering, wanting, needing, wrapping myself round him as he rolls us, so that he is looking down into my eyes,

“This too is new,” he says, “never have I been so quickly aroused a second, third, fourth, how many times do you want me? Never. I cannot get enough of you. Oh Legolas, my daft sodding elf, how can you ask me what you can give me? You give me – yourself. And I am richer than any, I could not ask for more.”

I blush again, I cannot become accustomed to his changes – he is so – forthright – in his language, his way of speaking so much of the time, that when he decides to use his gift of words – I am undone. And – as ever – I find that this elf is no match for this dwarf in words.

“I love you,” seems to be all I can say, but I say it over and over, “I love you so. I cannot bear the thought of others – I know, it is past – I know – I am an elf – I am not supposed to be jealous – but I am – I love you so. I – I fear to lose you. I could not – I – I know you would not leave me. I – I just – I – I waited so long. I was so lonely for so long. I love you so.”

He looks at me, his hands stilled for a moment,

“I don’t know what more I can do. I will think. You must think. If there is anything – anything – that would help. In bed. Or not. Anywhere. Anything – anything you can imagine. Do you need jewellery? I thought – I thought the braids were enough. But – if you need a ring,” I shudder, and I see the same thought is in his mind – rings – do not appeal somehow, “no, not a ring. But – something. The only thing dwarves do – sometimes – is inkings – but I would not mar your skin. It is not necessary. But – if you want it I will wear one for you?” 

I shake my head, it is not fair, 

“No. Unless – you wanted it. I – it would be too – unelven. I think. Maybe. One day. No. I am being foolish. I know this. I – I just – I am not used to mortal ways – to talking of – of bed. I – I still do not even know the words.” And I feel myself flushing again – surely by now I should begin to be used to this? After those heady wonderful days in Minas Tirith, after the stolen nights on the way here, carefully laying our bedrolls a distance from his dwarves, hoping they will continue to be kind and ignore what we are doing – surely I should not be so shy and yet so desperate for this? Is this how elves are? 

I am no maiden of Men, I am a warrior, a prince, I am not supposed to fear anything, I am not supposed to blush, to hide my face. I am an elf, I am supposed to have mastery over words – I suppose even over words for this. I seem to fail in this as in so much else, I think. I should be able to talk to him at least of these things – but – I cannot. I wonder if all elves are like this – and realise I will never know. It is not the sort of thing one can ask – in fact, it occurs to me – who would I ask? Ada – no. My brothers – no and beyond no. I have no friends who are married – and the others will be as unknowing as I was. As I think this, I realise my love is smiling at me, in a very specific way,

“Then another night, I will teach you. I will teach you words for every part, every action, every desire. I would have you know how to ask for your pleasure, I would have you know what I want when I ask you to please me.” He pauses, and I gasp at the thought. I cannot, I cannot learn those words, speak of these things. I cannot. I – I long to. I long to hear him speak to me like that. The thought of his voice asking me, telling me what he wants. Describing such things. I flush even at the idea. And I know he has noticed, even as he continues, “But – right now – Legolas – I think you know exactly what I want, and I am bloody well going to have it too, aren’t I? Because, my daft sodding elf, it is precisely what you want, pressing up against me like that.”

And I whimper again, as he lowers his mouth to mine, and drives all these thoughts away. Yes, yes I know exactly what he wants, and it is as he says – I want it too. I wrap my legs round him as he reaches out, as he oils his fingers, as he begins to touch me, pushing inside of me, one finger after another, coaxing those moans and gasps from me as I cannot resist.

“Oh that is good. Be quiet if you wish, if you can, my love, I do not need to hear your cries, your delight. You do like that though, don’t you? Yes. Yes I thought so.” And he leans to my ear and begins to lick gently, enjoying my movement as I do not know whether to push up into his mouth, to rock my hips against him, or to bear down onto his fingers, and I writhe between, around him, whispering his name over and over. 

He smiles against my ear,

“I too could tease – I could make you beg – I could make you wait – scream out your need – but I will not. Not tonight. You don’t want to – so I won’t.” And I cling a bit tighter in response, oh how he knows me, how he understands,

“Another night,” I say, “anywhere but here. You know. I would do anything.”

“I know,” he says, “so – ssh now.” But – he is in me, and oh – how can he say ssh? I cannot ssh. He knows I cannot. At first I try, I try so, I try to be quiet but I cannot. And soon I am crying out with every one of his thrusts, I am calling his name, I am wordless in my pleasure, and I know he likes it. He is breathing hard, he is so close, and I am shattering, I am falling but I am clinging on, trying so to please him and I cry out, “oh please, please, yes, Gimli, need you, please,” and I feel him come inside me, and I – I am holding so tight, so tight to him I think I can never let go, I see stars and I am arching off the bed against him.

And as I come back to myself, he is holding me, his arms around me still, and he says,

“I love you. And you are not shamed. You are loved. It is different.”

And I look up at him, and I know he is right. And I think – I will never let myself be so foolish again. 

I hope.

I will never bother to try to be quiet either. Why should I? I am a wood-elf. We are not known for our restraint.


End file.
